"I'd tried the berries a while back at a party and thought they were an amusing foodie party trick, but didn't really think much more of them. And then I was visiting a friend in Palm Beach a month later, and there were actually miracle berries growing wild at the hotel he was staying at, and it sort of dawned on me that the berries were precisely the type of thing that would go over well in New York. And that not many people were selling them. So my friend and I found a sourced a grower in Florida who sends us a weekly shipment, and then we handle the distribution via a bare-bone site we set up. We can arrange either a pick-up or a delivery in Manhattan, just like your dry cleaning and/our real drug delivery service.

We don't charge shipping and handling for orders in NYC, so we're a good deal cheaper than some of the other people selling them. Of course, the whole thing kind of blew up after the Times story came out, but it'll be a while before we're the Pablo Escobar and George Jung of the fruit dealing world."

See also: Grub Street

"It's really upsetting that this girl soured the experience for me," he tells Radar in an e-mail message. "I'm still very upset and in shock over the whole thing. Believe me, I could say some things about her that would blow everyone away. But despite it all, I will at least TRY to be a gentleman this time around."

Cherico also adds that he's debating whether he should take legal action against Smarty Shoes for the public smackdown she gave him, as was suggested by "several lawyers. But given her mental history, I feel she could potentially be a danger to me, my loved ones, and, ultimately, herself."

Like Julia, Apes & Androids have a crazy live show. But instead of attempts at demonstrating embryonic self-awareness, they entertain with confetti, glow sticks and David Bowie make-up. The band had everyone dancing unironically.

On a Thursday night, there are only so many free events for fans of small electro/pop bands with good live acts. However big New York gets, it'll always be a small town. I saw a girl from high school and a kid from my Birthright trip. Growing up in Westchester, it's six of one, half a dozen of the other, but still.

I also saw College Humor honcho Ricky Van Veen, who asked that I create a special adjective for him when referencing him on Gawker. In exchange: all the College Humor t-shirts I could ask for. We agreed on "always-Conversed" because Ricky 2 Vs is always rocking out in Converses. And nothing says casual millionaire (or cool high school civics teacher) like a pair of Chucks.

Ex-College Humor colleague Zach Klein was also there. He and I didn't talk enough to settle on an adjective for him, but I'll say this: his hair is always worth discussing.

On my way out, my friend espied Neel Shah, who was also at the Julia Allison party. That guy is bridging two media worlds one night of free drinks at a time.

I don't care if his name is Apu Nahasapeemapetilon...I want to spread his masculine deliciousness on a some Hindu crackers and start going crazy.

This guy is so hot, he makes steam look cool. Just look at those soulful eyes and artistically sculpted arms. Lock me up in a mountain chalet with nothing but this guy, a limitless supply of body oil and a basket of Swedish condoms. *Yelp!*

I agree..he's totally worth my dowry

Neel: [Attempting to regroup] You have to go in there. Jada: Why me? Neel: It's got to be a girl. Jada: Yeah, I'm sure Snoop Dogg is really into hanging out with nerdy half-Chinese chicks who dress like librarians. You're brown. You have a beard. You go. Neel: I look like a terrorist! Go up to him and say, "It's been my dream since I was 5 years old to smoke pot with Snoop Dogg." Jada: But that's not my dream. Neel: It's like one of the top-three most impressive things you can possibly do in your life! Play ball with LeBron James. Have sex with Jenna Jameson. Smoke pot with Snoop Dogg. I can guarantee there are men on this earth who have done all three, but they are way cooler than me. You HAVE to do this. Jada: Well, I guess it does lead me one step closer to sex with Jenna Jameson.

[Jada hops into a group of passersby, then out again at the center of Snoop Dogg's circle. D-O-Double G passes a long, lean, perfectly rolled blunt to a woman nearby.]

Jada: [Mumbling to self while backing away] Oh, well, looks like I missed my chance.
Snoop Dogg: At what, sugar?
Jada: Uh ... it's been a dream of mine since I was 5 to smoke pot with Snoop Dogg.
Snoop Dogg: [Laughs, pulls out an identical long, lean, perfectly rolled blunt, lights it, and puts it in her tiny hands] Has it been that long?

In which we smoke weed with Snoop Dogg

Like it or not, the holidays are upon us. I'm sure when you were stumbling home in the wee morning hours of November 1st in your slutty Madeline Albright costume, you saw the shopkeepers ripping down witches and vampires and putting up pictures of a fat old man who breaks into your house and tries to woo your children with toys. But there's also that other holiday in between, that one dedicated to an afternoon spent face-down on the shag carpet, woozy from tryptophan and big-bottle wine. A time when you listen to and look at your family and wonder "Who are these people??" I was thinking about this the other day and, in the immortal words of Mr. Ed: later that night, I got to thinking. I've decided we'll have a new Thanksgiving. A Gawker Thanksgiving. It's so corny! I know! But, I get sentimental this time of year.

So. How will this work? I think we'll start with the location. Naturally Laurel Touby, founder of MediaArby's, will be our "cyber hostess." (Ugh.) We'll all meet sometime around noon. Julia Allison will bring her darling dog Lilly and Jakob Lodwick will bring his darling fashion lenses. Tinsley Mortimer will arrive wearing an old, soiled Santa suit and just blink confusedly at everyone. (She'll disappear for much of the night, only to be found in the backyard, stuck in a bear trap.) Kristian Laliberte will arrive with his new boyfriend, Elijah Pollack. They'll be so in love! (Later, during dinner, Anna Wintour will lean in close, her breath reeking of gin and clamato juice, purring into your ear "Aren't they just divine together? They're like Paul Newman and Katherine Ross in Butch Cassidy. Except, you know, gay and, um, young.") John Fitzgerald Page will come crashing through the foyer in his Beemer, Eiffel 65's "Blue" blasting loudly, and shove a sweaty bucket of fried chicken into Laurel's hands. Then, just as we think all the guests have arrived, we'll hear a strange hum, a demonic orchestra tuning. As the whole house rumbles, Sean Hannity will shriek, jumping up and down and clapping his hands, "Rupey is here!" Mr. Murdoch will disembark his flaming humpback whale nuclear stagecoach and shove a sweaty Judith Regan into Laurel's feather boa.

James Lipton will utter a dinner bell clarion call from deep within his diaphragm, and all the guests will be seated at the long oak table. There will be a beautiful centerpiece fashioned out of the rawhide remains of Jocelyn Wildenstein's face. The feast will consist of many bottles of Coppola Vineyards wine, PinkBerry soufflés, and turducken. Robert Olen Butler will be the first to get drunk and hurl recriminations at people. "Elizabeth!!" he'll shout across the table at Jann Wenner, "No one poops in South America! It wasn't a sign! It was nature!!" Chris Crocker will defuse the awkward situation by stripping down to his skivvies and doing an old-style fan dance/Britney Spears hyper-sexual mash-up that erotically incorporates Janet Robinson's famous green bean casserole. ("It's the fried onions that really make it work," he'll say in a post-performance YouTube interview with himself.)

Once all are sated and sufficiently boozed up, plates will be cleared by Laurel's faithful butler, Neel Shah. Then, it's on to charades! Mandy Stadtmiller will start. She will pantomime long walks on beaches and summers spent murmuring on porch swings about the big, bright future. In mere seconds team partner Alyssa Shelasky will shriek "SuperPreppy!!" Commenter KarenUhOh, who has been quietly assessing the legal ramifications of all this, will dryly deadpan: "I thought the category was real people." Mandy will run out of the room weeping and farting, having had her hideous secret revealed. Graydon Carter will be next. He will act out a strange series of lilts and affectations, and Lizzie Grubman will yell with delight "Spike! Spike! It's your little fey creature of a son!" A few more rounds will come and go, and of course it will end in a tie and all will be smugly satisfied with their own accomplishments.

The rest of the evening will be devoted to that most revered and corny of Thanksgiving traditions, the actual giving of thanks. The list of thanks will be long and varied. Selected highlights will be:

Tionna Tee Smalls: The film Ishtar
NewToJezebel: Jewish people.
Jeffrey Epstein: Those High School Musical: The Ice Tour tickets he managed to score.
Christopher Hitchens: Religion and Bic razors.
Atoosa Rubenstein: The well-meaning gypsies who style her and, in a bold extension of an olive branch, the Omega Kitties.
Senator Larry Craig: Feet, and a willful spirit.
Josh Schwartz and the rest of the Gossip Girl team: Blacks and Asians.

And, finally, the yoga stick of thanks will be passed to yours truly. And your friend LolCait will say this:

"I find the word 'thanks' inadequate, or even inappropriate. 'Thanks' implies expectation, a resigned 'Phew! Of course these good things were coming after all.' So I'm not thankful, I'm grateful. Things of late seem pretty awful and, truth is, I've Done Nothing During The War, and yet some good things keep coming to me. Six months into my participation in this bizarre social experiment, it is quite baffling to have found both silly entertainment and keen insight on this most cold and unfeeling internet. So I am grateful for a strange new home, for precarious new friendships."

All will be quiet for a moment, and then I will fall down, completely drunk. I will be scooped up by the ever-friendly Josh Ferris (swoon!) and taken from the room.

The night will end as nights do, with sloppy hugs and prolonged, slurred goodbyes. Dear James Kurisunkal will be passed out in the broom closet, spooning a snoring Spencer Pratt, who will still be in his 'Vincent from the Beauty and the Beast television series' Halloween costume. (Or is it a costume??) Ira Glass will dejectedly try to coax Merry Miller into his cab. The Gawker editors will wander off into the night, a bottle of champagne shared between them (with a pour to the sidewalk, remembering Balks, Shafrirs, Spiers, Oxfelds, and others long gone.) Nick Denton will open his umbrella and float whimsically away into the purple night sky. And I will ramble off, thinking of puns and light bulb jokes for the next week. But, before I turn the corner, I will feel a tap on my shoulder. "Don't be alarmed," a voice will say. "It's only me, Douglas." I'll messily grin at him, this most famous of Queens landlords, and say "Oh Douglas. I'm not alarmed. I'm just grateful... Just wonderfully, queasily grateful."

Douglas will shrug his shoulders and walk away, headed off to yuk it up with Michelle and Emily, happy to have been included at all.

"Who are all those strange people?" Patrick Moberg will ask as he stands on the stoop and watches this all unfold. "I don't know," his new wife Camille will respond, robotically petting his arm.

"I've only just met them."

Maybe it seems like we're taking this too seriously. On the one hand, oh ha ha this is some harmless pagefiller in a teen magazine. On the other hand, what a total pig.

Like, here's the most egregious lie in the article: reason number five Why Guys Lie. "Because We Like You! When a guy's getting to know you, he may think that he needs to lie a little to get you to like him ... Now that we know you like us, we feel safe being 100% real."

Hey, thanks, no. Next up: Why Guys Date Rape: Because We Like You!

As we were walking in, we saw 16-year-old MisShapes muse Jackson Pollis heading out. "You're not sticking around?" we asked. "Naw," he said, "Geordan's being a bitch," Heh! Fame will do that to you. Pollis headed into the night.

To the credit of Rock and Republic, the label that cosponsored the party, it was rather fashionable and rocking. LCD Soundsystem was playing later in the night (around 1:30) and a couple members of the Roots were deejaying in a corner. In the upstairs VIP section, DJ Steve Aoki (AKA the son of Rocky Aoki of Benihana and half-brother of Devon Aoki of supermodeldom) was embracing Mark the Cobrasnake, who was wearing a large gold Chai necklace and tie-dye.

Another DJ, Tommie Sunshine, showed up looking like a cheap Chris Robinson (or so said a disappointed paparazzo). His girlfriend, Daniela M., who is one of the "Top 20 Most Creative Italians on Myspace," was wearing a full-facial motorcycle helmet and refused to take it off all night. Actorboy Danny Masterson was somewhere too. Allegedly.

On the stage, James Friedman and LCD Soundsystem began performing. Radar robot Neel Shah was hanging out with Daily Candy's NYC editor Jeralyn Gerba. Agyness Deyn was with a truly strange looking Smeagol-like gentlemen in a fedora; they danced a saltarello. With the lasers and the smoke, it all felt very Pink Floyd Light Show at the Franklin Institute Planetarium circa 1998. There's a lot worse things to be than that.

[Correction: We just found out via the PR company, the party technically didn't have an affiliation with Condé Nast Fashion Rocks. Such is the chaotic shitshow of Fashion Week.]

In fact, even the boys aren't generating original content: just repurposing dating-related bits from their book Faking It. And instead of weighing in with an actual girl's take on what seems like some highly specious advice—come on, "ask somebody where first class is [on the Staten Island Ferry], and before they get a chance to laugh, whisk your date to the upper deck"?—she seconds it.

"'It's a known fact that women love cheese and wine,' says Blumenfeld. (He is correct. Also, sugar.)" Besides calling Noah Blumenfeld "sugar," Julia's not so much her flirty self at all in this column. Maybe she's spent from her other endeavors?

Shoestring Theory [TONY]

RADAR MAG SHORT ON DETAILS [NYP]

So remember that millionaire speed-dating thing we discussed earlier? Our former intern Neel Shah, now Radar's assistant editor, was there, clearly working. The CNN ladies mistook him for one of the dude participants, who all had to prove their financial bona fides in order to gain admittance. Enjoy being thought of as rich now, Neel. In a few more months, chances are you'll be laughing all the way to the unemployment office.

Earlier: Join Us In Quashing The Latest Richard Nouveau Publicity Stunt Again

We like to humilate Neel Shah

Related: Get Rich Or Try Lying [Radar]

Fashion Week: Heatherette [photos]